


Melody of the Sea

by MangaFreak15



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Siren!Yuuri, Viktor angsting over writer's block, Viktor with a K, Writer!Viktor, Writer!Yuri, Yurio has a potty mouth, original characters for the sake of Viktor's writer angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-10-13 04:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10506357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangaFreak15/pseuds/MangaFreak15
Summary: Best-selling, award-winning author Viktor Nikiforov hits his worst case of writer's block since he first launched his career. He takes to the sea in hopes of getting his inspiration back, but ends up finding something far beyond his wildest imaginations.OR:The siren AU that nobody asked for.





	1. Struggle and Strife

  _The warm sunset hues turned her hair a brilliant vermilion, bright gold dancing over flyaway strands. He embraced her tenderly, tasting sea salt in the air and from the hot tears rolling down her cheeks._

_“Don’t go,” she choked, her fingers digging hard into the back of his shabby gray coat. Her delicate makeup was ruined by her current cryfest, ugly trails of black mascara sliding down over her high cheekbones._

_He exhaled over the top of her head. “I must,” he replied solemnly. “The Archduke awaits me.”_

_“You don’t have to do this. Let me come with you, please. My father will—”_

_“Will...?” he whispered, sudden fear overtaking him and making all his muscles stiffen. The power and influence of Charlotte’s family was not to be underestimated. He was but a lowly seafarer, and to have Charlotte willingly surrender herself to his arms was a precious memory that he never wanted to let go. “Will what? Will he execute me in person when he sees what we have become?”_

_“Oh, Lupin,” she cried, pulling herself away from his embrace, a sudden fury present in her pale face. “Do you not want this? Do you not want us to happen?”_

_“Charlotte, darling—”_

_“I can’t do this if you’re not with me, Lupin. Please tell me: what is it that you want from me? From us?” She sounded so terribly desperate that the weathered seaman couldn’t help but try to answer her._

_“I… I want…” his voice trembled uncertainly. He could feel himself reeling, as if on the edge of a vast, yawning precipice. “I… I don’t know what I want.”_

 

At that point, Viktor hurled his cheap, plastic ballpoint pen into the wall and sank into his plush office chair with a frustrated groan. He covered his face with his hands, uncaring of the blue ink stains smeared all over his fingers.

This was the seventeenth time he had tried to write this emotionally-charged farewell scene between his two characters and for some reason, he just couldn’t get it to feel right. They always ended up arguing or fighting at the end and that wasn’t supposed to happen! No, Charlotte and Lupin were supposed to say their farewells in a lovely sunset harbor scene, with Charlotte crying and waving as Lupin set off to fight for her hand in marriage. But. It. Wasn’t. _Working._

Yakov had already yelled at him about the approaching deadline for his current work in progress, but Viktor wasn’t even close to done. He wasn’t even a third of the way through his draft. He put his hands down and glanced outside his window with a sigh.

The penthouse he lived in was located close to the shore of this seaside town, Hasetsu, so whenever he looked out he got a lovely view of cerulean waves lapping against the fine white sand. Seagulls circled overhead, eyeing bits of bread dropped by carefree beach-goers. The sun sparkled against each rolling crest and wave, shimmering like diamond dust to Viktor’s tired eyes.

He got up to retrieve the unfortunate pen that had fallen to the floor after his little fit of frustration. But when he sat back down in his chair and glanced down at his worn notebook, nothing came to him. Each scene he tried to imagine grew progressively worse, until the characters were mere shadows of their former selves and left Viktor grasping at straws. He tried to write something, but every sentence fell flatter than a piece of paper on a wooden floor, every word he put down felt like pulling teeth. Nothing _flowed._

It didn’t help that he had broken his tablet the same way he’d abused the poor pen. Writing digitally had been difficult, but having to painstakingly put each letter of each word to paper and manually scratch out whole sections drove him absolutely mad. And it cramped his hand like nothing else. He fervently wished that the repair shop would hurry up and fix his tablet, even though he’s the hopeless one who threw a fit and hurled the damn thing at the floor. He supposed he should be grateful that it could be fixed at all.

His musing was interrupted by a soft scratch of claws at the door, followed by a pitiful whine. Well, if there was one shining ray of eternal happiness he could count on to brighten up his life, it would be his precious dog. He smiled and got up to let Makkachin in.

The fluffy brown poodle danced around him in excitement, jumping and barking and generally making a happy ruckus as Viktor gave him some much needed attention. For a moment, the silver-haired man allowed himself to forget this writing woes. When he knelt down to cuddle his dog, Makkachin eagerly licked his face.

 _‘I’m here, too,’_ he seemed to say, big, shining puppy eyes gazing up adoringly at his owner. He stood on his hind legs, putting his front paws on Viktor’s extended knee, and started to pant softly. _‘I don’t know why you’re so anxious, but I can help!’_ He woofed and licked the tip of Viktor’s pointed nose.

Viktor utterly melted.

The poodle dashed out of the study hot on the author’s heels as Viktor made a beeline for the front door and the leash that hung on the wall beside it. Maybe a breath of fresh air would do him some good instead of staying cooped up inside all day. Makkachin was probably dying for a good walk. Viktor felt guilty for not thinking of his poor dog sooner. He made sure his notebook and several pens were tucked away into his bag before he opened the door.

Makkachin bounded into the hallway with an exuberant bark and immediately rushed over to the gleaming steel elevator doors. Viktor laughed as he followed at a slower pace. They descended to the ground floor and stepped out into the lobby, where he was promptly ogled by a group of rich schoolgirls huddled in the corner. He bid the concierge a polite good afternoon before they walked outside.

The cool sea breeze hit him hard, blowing his hair back from his pale face. Viktor took a deep breath. The heavenly aroma of fresh street food combined with the salt he could practically taste on the wind was a stark reminder that the vast human world existed outside of his fictional novel. It stopped for no one, not even a writer in the midst of the worst case of writer’s block since he launched his career.

He squinted absently at the distant port as Makkachin bounded along. He could almost see the scene now: diminutive Charlotte, with her burnished copper curls contrasting against the lacy floral print of her thin summer dress, standing at the edge of the harbor and holding tightly to Lupin’s sea-worn cloak. Lupin, with his tired, rugged face, scruffy brown beard, and shabby, gray seafarer’s clothing, embracing her sorrowfully and wishing he didn’t have to let go.

_Stay close to me and never leave._

Then Viktor blinked and the scene was gone, along with any words he could have used to put his vision down in written form. He bit back a disappointed growl and tore his gaze away. Right now he needed a distraction, not to think about his apparent slump. He was Viktor Nikiforov, the number one best-selling author for the past five years in a row. He didn’t _do_ slumps.

He was stopped on the streets a number of times by enthusiastic fans praising his previous works. Although Viktor didn’t begrudge them for an autograph or two, he really wished his smile didn’t have to feel so fake. At least nobody seemed to notice.

After spending an hour meandering through the bustling town, following after Makkachin’s energetic footsteps, Viktor found himself standing at the top of one of the looming cliffs that bordered the southwestern part of Hasetsu. The ocean stretched away from him, crystal-clear where the water was shallow, fading into dark, opaque blue towards the horizon. The sunlight still glinted brightly off the soft waves as they lapped at the sandy shoreline.

Viktor went as close to the edge as he dared, seating himself on a relatively-flat rock. The wind ruffled his hair gently. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the day’s tension slowly drain away.

Makkachin woofed quietly, then laid down at Viktor’s feet.

The author lost track of how many minutes he sat there on that rock, just enjoying the breeze, the calming view, and the peace that nature brought him. The noisiness of the town was muted up on the cliff, almost indistinguishable from the howl of gusts from the sea winding through the rocky outcroppings jutting away from the mainland. It was like a balm to his soul.

At one point, he even thought he could hear music. He could picture the abrupt crash of the cymbal as the waves pounded against the side of the cliff, a lovely piano crescendo as the water swelled, a slow and mournful violin tune echoing over the water as it drew back from the shore, a hauntingly beautiful voice singing in the distance, beckoning, calling—

Unfortunately the peace didn’t last. A loud buzzing from his pocket had Viktor pulling out his phone and grimacing at the screen. Yakov was calling again. He wasn’t feeling up to get yelled at more by the aging editor, but ignoring it would probably give way to an even more explosive call later on. With a heart that felt like it was plummeting back to earth after his brief respite, Viktor answered the call.

Yakov’s deafening, harsh voice immediately boomed out of the speaker, _“VITYA!_ Where the hell are you, you stupid boy?! I know you’re not at home, working on your draft like you’re supposed to be doing right now! Your irresponsibility and whimsical nature will be the death of me one day, I swear!”

Viktor gingerly held the phone a good distance away from his ear as Yakov raged some more. He turned an apologetic glance on his dog, who hardly looked bothered by the noise. He supposed that Makkachin had already had enough time to get used to Yakov’s _dulcet_ tones, given how often the man called.

When there was finally more than two seconds of silence, Viktor answered in as pleasant a voice as he could currently manage, “Good afternoon to you too, Yakov.”

There was a sigh from the other end. “You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”

“Nope!” Viktor declared, smiling guilelessly even though Yakov couldn’t see him.

“Vitya, your deadline is in three weeks. I will need your manuscript soon so I can look it over and make some final adjustments,” Yakov said. He sounded tired. It wasn’t the first time he’d fretted over the possibility that Viktor wouldn’t make his deadlines. Viktor viciously thought of how his writing was going, thought of the crumpled, ink-stained pages piling up in his trashcan, and wondered if this time might be the last.

“I know, Yakov, I know,” he murmured quietly, looking back out over the sweeping ocean. “I just… need some inspiration, that’s all.”

It was quiet on the other end, which was rather uncharacteristic of the gruff old editor. Viktor felt nervousness creep up on him when Yakov didn’t reply or yell at him right away.

“Yakov? Are you still there?” he asked, absently digging the toe of his shoe into the single pocket of sand he could see on the clifftop.

“...Finish your manuscript, Vitya, then we’ll talk.” With those last words, Yakov abruptly hung up.

Viktor slowly brought the phone away from his ear, feeling bewildered by Yakov’s lack of shouting, and like he had missed something important in that short conversation. He didn’t dare call Yakov back to ask.

He looked back out at the sea, but his moment of tranquility didn’t return. He could no longer hear the music, and that saddened him.

Makkachin barked questioningly from his feet, as if feeling his owner’s restlessness. Viktor reached out to give the little dog a reassuring pat on the head. “Let’s go home, Makkachin. I think we’ve been out long enough,” he said, standing up and stretching. His butt was a bit sore from sitting on that rock, but nothing a good walk couldn’t fix.

On their way home, Viktor’s phone buzzed again. Thinking that Yakov had something else to tell him, the author answered without glancing at the caller ID on the screen, “Hello?”

_“Where in the seven fucks have you been the past hour, you shitty geezer?!”_

Oh. It was Yuri, not Yakov. Viktor never really understood how Yuri came to have such a filthy potty mouth when none of his fellow writers actively swore in each other’s presence, but the fact that Yuri was calling meant that Viktor had forgotten something important (again).

“Just taking a stroll around town, you know Makkachin enjoys the sights,” Viktor said cheerily, ignoring the curses being spluttered at him from the other line.

“You say that every fucking time!” Yuri snapped. “You were supposed to meet me at the Junior Writers’ Center at one, you shithead. You promised you’d go over my short piece with me! You know, the one that I need to submit for the contest that’s fucking _tomorrow.”_

Had Viktor promised something like that? He couldn’t remember.

The junior writer let out a garbled scream of frustration. “Whatever, just get your fucking useless ass over here and tell me what I need to fix,” Yuri seethed. Then he hung up.

That could have gone better. Everyone and everything was just out to get him today, weren’t they? Viktor resisted the urge to childishly throw his phone into the nearest trash can. His tablet hadn’t been fixed yet, he didn’t need his phone broken too.

Makkachin trotted happily in front of him, oblivious to his owner’s plight.

In no time at all, they reached the Junior Writers’ Center (JWC). Unfortunately pets were not allowed inside, so Viktor had to leave Makkachin with a middle-aged couple who ran a temporary pet-sitting business just a block away from the JWC.

The moment he set foot in the building, a small and angry blur of blond hair and tiger-printed clothing barreled out from a nearby room. The blonde skidded to a halt before the startled author and thrust a sheaf of papers into his face.

“Read it,” Yuri demanded.

Viktor looked around for an empty table that he could sit at and mark up Yuri’s contest entry draft. A muted squeal came from the receptionist’s direction; she clearly recognized Viktor. He expected no less, after all, he’d once been a junior writer at this very same center before he’d been picked up by Yakov and become a best-selling author.

He flashed her an amiable grin as she quickly stood up and stammered about how it was a pleasure to see him in person. Yuri gave him an utterly disgusted look, which Viktor happily ignored. The receptionist walked over to another door, flipped the sign on the door from ‘open’ to ‘in use—do not disturb’, and unlocked it with a graceful flourish of her keys.

“You can use this room, Mister Nikiforov. Feel free to stay until closing if you want. Let me know if you need anything!” she said blithely, her cheeks tinged pink.

“Why, thank you, Miss Bellenois,” Viktor responded smoothly as he walked into the room. “Your help is much appreciated.” He winked at her flirtatiously.

Yuri gave him a firm kick to the rear as the receptionist blushed even harder. “Stop being so repulsive in public, old man! I don’t need you charming the panties off every woman you see!” he barked, shoving Viktor inside the room and blatantly slamming the door in the woman’s face.

Viktor gingerly rubbed at his shin where it had hit one of the legs on the nearest wooden chair. “That was rude, Yuri,” he huffed, moving to place his bag on the table. “Don’t abuse your seniors.”

“I wouldn’t if you would actually fucking remember something you promised for once in your goddamn life!”

“That hurts me, Yuri,” Viktor pouted, dramatically faking a swoon. “Right here.” He patted a hand over his heart.

One of the blonde’s eyebrows twitched murderously at Viktor’s theatrics, but the teenager chose to stalk over to the opposite chair and throw himself into it instead of throttling the award-winning author.

“Just read the damn piece, will you,” Yuri hissed through gritted teeth.

Feeling that he had ribbed the junior writer enough, Viktor settled down in his chair and pulled out his red pen. Time to see what Yuri had in store for him.

This month’s contest theme involved _Agape_ : selfless, unconditional love. The title of Yuri’s short piece was simply _The Witching Flower._ It was a love story about a girl who was bewitched by a poisonous flower and her childhood friend, who does everything he can to save her. Viktor was definitely impressed by the depth of Yuri’s vocabulary—a fact that was conveniently forgotten when faced with the wrath of the blond’s explosive mouth—his knowledge and understanding of proper grammar and sentence structure was astonishing at his age, and he perfectly detailed some poignant scenes, but… Viktor could not sense any _Agape_ from the text. The piece wasn’t devoid of emotion; in fact, he keenly felt the protagonist’s desperation and drive to succeed, his frustration at every failed attempt. But it wasn’t _Agape._

Yuri was tapping away impatiently on his phone, giving Viktor occasional glances. The silver-haired author turned the last page over and began to write down his observations and comments. If he tried to tell Yuri everything he thought of, he’d definitely forget something.

“Well?” the teenager prompted when Viktor paused to think of how to word his overall impression of the piece.

“Give me a moment,” Viktor absently replied, jotting down his last thoughts. He sat back to regard the pile of papers before him, bright red ink marking up the slightly-crumpled pages. For shits and giggles, he pulled out his pink pen and scribbled _Viktor <3_ at the end of his comments section. He then cleared his throat. The blond instantly sat up in his chair and tucked his phone away, all his attention on the older writer.

“Your work is very good,” Viktor informed him, nearly smiling when Yuri rolled his eyes. “The pacing is excellent, the characters don’t feel two-dimensional, and your choice of words for maximum visualization are fantastic. _However,_ the theme of tomorrow’s contest is on _Agape_ , unconditional love. I don’t feel that coming through your work at all.”

Yuri frowned. “But I did it correctly! I wrote a disgustingly sappy love story that fits all the parameters,” he argued.

Viktor folded his hands on the table in an effort to make himself look demure. “Tell me, Yuri, what does the term _Agape_ mean to you?” he queried.

“Hah?! It’s unconditional love, old man! You just told me that not even thirty fucking seconds ago, is your memory that degraded now?” the junior writer spat, incredulous.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Viktor said placatingly, waving his hand dismissively. “I wasn’t asking if you knew what it meant. I’m asking what it means to _you_ , personally.”

For once, Yuri’s default scowl was replaced by a look of uncertainty. “I don’t get it,” he grumbled, but his voice had less bite in it than usual.

“Think of it this way,” Viktor suggested, picking up Yuri’s papers and neatly stacking them together. He handed the draft back to the disgruntled teenager. “Is there anyone in your life, anyone at all, whom you love unconditionally, absolutely, no matter their faults and flaws? It can be a friend, it can be a family member. Anyone. Do you have someone like that?” This was probably the most hilariously-ironic explanation of a concept he had ever given in his life, considering he himself didn’t have a personalized _Agape._ Did loving his dog count?

Yuri’s face scrunched up in the most adorably confused fashion at the question—not that Viktor ever intended to tell him that. Pushing Yuri Plisetsky’s buttons was like stepping on a landmine, and for all of Viktor’s good-natured teasing, he did have some idea of the junior writer’s boundaries.

A few heartbeats of silence passed. Viktor waited patiently. If Yuri couldn’t figure out what _Agape_ meant to him by the end of their session, Viktor would have to resort to more drastic measures. Like dragging Yuri out to meditate under that waterfall he once found in the rocky, coastal area slightly west of Hasetsu. That would take time and effort and Yuri would probably rage at him all night if that happened.

Viktor didn’t miss the moment that a tender look overcame the young writer’s face.

“Obviously you have someone in mind. Good! Think about the emotions you feel when you think about that person, and convey them through your words. As good as _The Witching Flower_ is in its present state, it won’t be winning any medals in a contest about _Agape._ Rewrite it and send it to me for approval,” Viktor instructed, rising from his seat.

Yuri also got up from his chair, looking more contemplative than surly. Feeling like taking a last mischievous potshot at the unsuspecting junior writer, Viktor casually mentioned, “Got any secret lovers in mind?”

In an instant, Yuri was back to his usual abrasive self. “Fuck off, old man!” he shouted, slinging his bag over his back and storming out of the room with his papers tightly clutched in one hand. Viktor chuckled when he noticed that Yuri’s ears had been just the slightest bit pink at the tips.

Ah, teenagers these days.

Reading Yuri’s work had given him a couple new ideas for his own novel. Now to see if he could actually put his thoughts to paper…

 

000

 

 **To: Viktor Nikiforov <v.nikiforov@gmail.com>** **3/29/17 (20 minutes ago)**

**From: Yuri Plisetsky <yuriplisetsky@gmail.com>**

 

I rewrote the damn thing. Are you happy now?

-Yuri P.

 

**Attachment(s): 1**

[the_witching_flower.doc] 4.3MB

 

 

 **To: Yuri Plisetsky <yuriplisetsky@gmail.com>** **3/29/17 (seconds ago)**

**From: Viktor Nikiforov <v.nikiforov@gmail.com>**

 

Yuri,

That was fantastic! Much better than the original, I could sense more _Agape_ flowing out from your words. You can win the contest with this, I can feel it!

From,

Viktor

 

000

 

Yuri ended up winning the contest, barely edging out the runner-up contestant—an older junior writer named Otabek Altin—by a single point. The bronze medal was taken by Yuri’s writing acquaintance at the JWC, Mila Babicheva.

He didn’t call Viktor to offer thanks. Instead, Viktor was treated to a trio of delicious pirozhki made by the teenager’s grateful grandfather. As he accepted them, profusely thanking the elderly man for the food, Viktor caught a quick glimpse of Yuri’s small, proud smile.

Viktor was sure he knew who Yuri’s _Agape_ was for now.

 

000

 

Three days later, Charlotte and Lupin still weren’t cooperating with him. Viktor had thrown one of his pens out the window on accident, the first and only time he had bothered to open his window to air out his study. His notebook was down to a quarter of its original size now. If he was being honest with himself, he was ready to chuck the entire thing out of the window, too. He was still nowhere close to done with his manuscript, Yakov constantly called him up to yell at him about his deadlines, his trash pile was practically a mountain that covered a third of his floor, and Makkachin could only cheer him up so many times.

Viktor didn’t think he’d ever felt so lost in his entire life. The best-selling, award-winning author had to throw in the towel and admit it: he was in a slump.

_He was in a slump._

He just felt utterly uninspired by life in general. The same old cliches, the same old format, where was the surprise? The mystery? The shock value?

Viktor stared moodily out the window, tapping the end of his pen against his cheek. He didn’t feel like writing this novel anymore. The characters didn’t speak to him like the characters did in all his previous works. He didn’t know what kind of plot device he could implement into the story without falling back on a deus ex machina. He didn’t like relying on those if he could help it.

His eyes fell on the gloomy sea. Today was an overcast day, so the water looked stormy and foreboding rather than glittery and inviting. The waves appeared ominously choppy further out. Dark gray clouds hung over the Hasetsu harbor, promising heavy rainfall later during the day.

He wondered if it would change anything if he had Charlotte and Lupin part ways in angry rain and wind rather than the romantic sunset scene he had been attempting this whole time. It would certainly give the part a more dramatic flavor. Being drenched in the rain wouldn’t do any wonders for the poor girl’s health though. He wasn’t out to write a tragedy (although, it would definitely surprise his readers, and that was something he always aimed to do).

Viktor sat up straighter in his office chair, suddenly feeling a burst of inspiration. What if he had Charlotte and Lupin elope together? They could stowaway on a ship somehow, maybe if he had Charlotte bribe the ship’s captain to keep mum (or was that too cliche?) Or he could have Charlotte pretend to be sickly and explain that Lupin was taking her to a foreign land known for its advanced medical technology, but that was risky because Charlotte’s family was incredibly influential world-wide. Oh, oh, what if…

Before he knew it, another hour had passed and Viktor had filled up the remainder of his tattered notebook with all the ideas he had just brainstormed. He looked back out at the sea. A single ray of light had parted the clouds, leaving a perfectly circular golden dot on the next swelling wave. It was like a shining beacon of hope at the end of a long, depressing struggle. Viktor thought it was appropriately poetic.

The sea had calmed him and given him new energy in return. Maybe it was the key to unlocking his new novel’s potential.

Viktor drummed his fingers against the open notebook, humming. Well, he definitely needed a new notebook now. The electronics repair shop had called him earlier this morning to inform him that his tablet should be completely fixed and ready for pick-up tomorrow morning, so that was another thing he didn’t have to worry about anymore. He only needed to figure out what to do about Makkachin. He supposed he could leave his dog with the pet sitters again, but they couldn’t keep him indefinitely while he went on a spontaneous journey. It’s not like he was lacking in money though…

The silver-haired author groaned and let his head fall on the notebook with a soft thump. Overthinking things wasn’t his forte. Admittedly he was more impulsive than anything. He was probably the reason behind a great deal of Yakov’s gray hairs.

Well, there was no time like the present. Viktor dragged himself out of his chair, closing his battered notebook and slipping it inside one of his desk drawers. When he opened the door, Makkachin rushed over to greet him, covering his hands and face with ecstatic puppy kisses. Viktor laughed even though he almost tripped over the eager poodle on his way to the front door. He grabbed his favorite brown trench coat from the hall closet and pulled it on before he stepped out.

The air was cool and moist outside. The hustle and bustle of Hasetsu’s streets were tempered by the promise of a coming storm, few citizens daring to linger out in the open without solid shelter.

Luckily the office supply store was a short walk from his penthouse. He was able to stroll in, buy two new notebooks and several new pens (in rainbow colors, of course), and make it back home within half an hour. Makkachin seemed to enjoy the excursion despite how little time it took. Viktor needed to remind himself to reward his dog with extra treats for such patient behavior later. In the meantime, he spent a good chunk of his afternoon brainstorming away in one of his new notebooks, the faithful dog snoozing away at the foot of his desk.

When evening rolled around, rain and wind began to buffet his windows with increasing force. Viktor elected to microwave some leftovers sitting in the fridge and sit on his couch to watch whatever romantic comedy or Hasetsu soap opera special was playing at the moment. Makkachin curled up next to him on the couch and Viktor absently stroked the poodle’s fluffy fur.

Viktor thought he could imagine the stormy fury in Lupin’s hazel eyes as he fought tooth and nail for Charlotte’s love, the latter being chained down by the responsibilities of a noble lady. Would it surely shock the audience, he speculated, if he had the audacity to write a scene of Charlotte shearing off her beautiful auburn hair and denouncing her heritage in front of the entirety of the noble court?

At some point, he must have tuned the show out and fallen asleep, because the next thing Viktor knew, the strains of an exquisite, heartbreaking, lonely melody were fading from his fragmented dreams, and all he could vaguely remember were two glowing amber eyes gazing at him from behind a rippling veil of murky water.

 _Tomorrow,_ he vowed to himself as he stumbled back to his bedroom to grab his sleepwear. Tomorrow he would gather his things and board the first ship he saw. Come hell or high water, he would have his inspiration, and if the sea was where it lied, then that was where he needed to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't seen any siren AUs so far, so I wrote one! Yuuri will show up in the next chapter, I promise!
> 
> Please leave a comment before you go~


	2. Ignorance is Lower Than Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor writes on a boat and doesn't realize he's in danger until it's too late.

Viktor woke up to a sunbeam shining directly on his face, effectively blinding him. He whined and turned over to bury his head under his pillow. Why was it so bright, damn it. He must have forgotten to close the curtains in his sleepy stupor last night—

Wait, last night.

There was something important about last night that was currently eluding him. He vaguely recalled dozing off on the couch with Makkachin beside him, but wasn’t there something else that happened? Something about the sea…

When he remembered that he wanted to journey out to the sea to get his inspiration back, he immediately flung the pillow off his face, wincing as it narrowly missed smacking into his bedside lamp. Excitement rose up within him at the thought. He was going to get his muse back! He hopped out of bed with new energy, earning himself a sleepy woof from the poodle dozing at the foot of the bed.

Viktor felt a pang in his heart at the thought of leaving his beloved poodle behind. He didn’t know how long he would be gone, and he was sure that Makkachin would be desperately lonely without him. Maybe Yuri would be willing to drop by and check on him from time to time, although that would also require Viktor to tell him where he was going for such a long time that he’d need to leave Makkachin.

_That_ definitely wouldn’t go over well with the explosive junior writer.

The author contemplated the issue through his whole daily morning routine, and still hadn’t come to a decision by the time he finished his breakfast. Maybe he shouldn’t go after all? He had no idea what awaited him out on the sea, he simply thought he might get inspired again if he lived in a different environment for a while. That was about as vague a plan as they come.

The pet sitters were the best choice by far. He didn’t think they imposed a limit on the maximum length of time that a pet could be in their care, and well, who could resist saying no to Viktor Nikiforov’s beloved poodle?

He leaned over in his chair and stroked the top of Makkachin’s head. “I’m going on a journey, Makkachin,” he told his dog seriously. The brown poodle gazed back with solemn eyes. “I’m going on a _journey._ It’s very important to me, you know? You’ll be a good boy for the pet sitters, hm?”

Makkachin licked his fingers in response, and proceeded to pad to the couch to lay down.

Viktor took that as a ‘yes’.

He stood up to put his dishes in the sink, then was struck by sudden realization and a feeling like a haymaker to the gut. If he was going out to sea for an indefinite amount of time, he needed to pack. He needed to _clean._ He hadn’t considered these issues the past few days, too caught up in the euphoria of finding his muse again, but now they hit him with all the force of an exploding missile. He looked around him in a panic.

Viktor thought about his hamper full of dirty laundry, the mountain of crumpled papers strewn across the floor of his study, the teetering pile of dishes already taking up space in his kitchen sink, the dog-eared reference books stacked beside his desk, and the dust and fur coating his furniture. He thought about his unwashed bedsheets, wrinkled and furry, the pillowcase he probably drooled on in his sleep, the magazines carelessly thrown over his expensive glass coffee table. He thought about the half-full trash and recycle bins waiting to be thrown out for garbage collection day, and his untidy bathroom with his beauty products lined up on the shower rack in all their sticky, oily, butyraceous glory.

He needed a housekeeper.

An hour and a dozen phone calls later, he hired a respectable freelance cleaning lady to take care of his penthouse—and Makkachin by extension, thank god!—while he was away on his ‘business trip’. The woman was greatly honored. Apparently her two teenaged daughters were fans of his books; in fact, her eldest aspired to be a novelist just like him. Their favorite was _The Lilac Fairy_ , which was Viktor’s debut work, the first piece that Yakov had edited for him, and the one that had launched him straight into the spotlight when he earned several accolades and topped the best-selling chart for debut works for two months in a row.

He had been seventeen, young and brilliant and basking in the praise thrown at him for his remarkable feat. Fast forward a decade and here he was, twenty-seven, rich, loaded with the most prestigious awards and medals in the writing community, and desperate to rekindle the embers of his dying muse.

Viktor autographed two extra copies of his debut novel he had stashed away in his study and gave them to her as thanks for agreeing to keep his home in working order on such short notice. She was over the moon with gratefulness.

“Thank you so much,” she said, bowing deeply. “I can’t even begin to tell you how thrilled my daughters will be.”

“No, thank you for responding to my offer so quickly,” Viktor replied with a bright smile. It didn’t feel quite as fake and tiresome as his attempts a few days ago, which put him into an even better mood. He was going to get his inspiration back, he could almost feel it down to his bones. Feeling rather sanguine about his prospects for the future, he decided he would reward the cleaning lady handsomely if he came back to a tidy home and a happy, healthy pet.

He looked out the window at Hasetsu shining warm and golden under the sunlight, the last glistening remnants of the previous night’s storm clinging stubbornly to the rooftop eaves, the faded white paint of the mullioned windows gleaming, clear blue skies bared for the world to see. The turbulence of yesterday’s waves was nowhere in sight, the ocean calm and gently rolling into the bay once again. If he squinted, he could just make out the distant shape of a small sailboat bobbing along in the waters further out, followed by a fisherman’s dinghy. Everything was quiet and serene after yesterday’s raging tempest.

For the author, there could not be a clearer sign of hope and encouragement.

For good measure, he decided to pen a letter to Yakov. At least that way the editor was less likely to call the police to hunt him down.

 

000

 

Viktor had not planned for how difficult it could be to bargain his way onto a ship with no ticket and no warning. Fortunately for him, the modern world ran on a ridiculously high level of materialism.

Thus, he simply resorted to the time-honored method of throwing money at the first taker and shamelessly faked innocence via whistling. No Hasetsu native would really bother to question him anyway, given his celebrity status.

Once he had settled himself on the ship, Viktor took a moment to gaze around himself and really _look_ and _feel_ and utterly _immerse_ himself in the scenery. He was usually prolific in words when it came to writing, but this time, his newest novel in the works needed something more than sappy purple prose to fill up the pages. He needed something inspiring, something moving, something emotional and heartbreaking and lovely all at once.

The cheery little town was quite a ways behind them now, a long stretch of land in the distance, blotting out the horizon with its charming, asymmetrical design and the rise and fall of the concrete buildings.

Viktor vaguely remembered this sight, from when he had emigrated to Hasetsu as a young boy. It brought a sense of nostalgia to him, which he was quick to use to pen down a few quick sentences in his new notebook. His characters may not be cooperating with him at the moment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t write other things.

 

**_The_ ** ~~**_winds_ ** ~~ **_salty sea breeze brings up memories of my hometown. I remember waking to the cry of gulls every morning outside my sill, the_ ** ~~**_cries_ ** ~~ **_hollering of the downstairs neighbors whom were in the middle of a nasty divorce, and the hustle and bustle of the_ ** ~~**_merchants_** **_street_**~~ **_vendors peddling wares_ ** ~~**_outside_ ** ~~ **_in the streets. I live in the city now. It is not the same; the air is thick and foul here, there are only the cold, impersonal storefronts of general supermarkets, and instead of seagulls I wake up to blaring car alarms and_ ** ~~**_squawking_ ** ~~ **_noisy crows bunched up together on the telephone poles outside my window._ **

 

Nowhere near his best work or his most eloquent sentences, but it was a start.

For the next hour, Viktor wrote about the sun and the sea, about the other passengers on the ship, their clothing, their habits, their looks and personalities, their hair. He wrote about the way the ship gently swayed in the waves, cutting a sharp line through the water and leaving a trail of white bubbles in its wake. He wrote until his hand cramped and perspiration from the afternoon heat made his pen slip from his fingers and roll away across the wooden deck.

Viktor took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the salty air. He let out a quiet laugh as he tilted his face towards the sun.

Writing had never made him feel so free. If he had known that writing outside, absorbed in the surroundings, rather than sitting alone in a cramped office filled with dusty tomes, old takeout containers, and mountains of crumpled papers would have produced better results, he would’ve started doing it a long time ago.

He hoped Yakov got his letter. He knew that up and disappearing without a word was bound to make the aging editor feel like tearing out his remaining hair in frustration (and though Yakov would never admit it, he did worry about Viktor in his own gruff, tough-love way). He had given the editor a copy of his house key a long time ago, and that was likely the first place Yakov would look if Viktor failed to answer his calls or show up to the publications office. He had left the letter on his coffee table, with instructions to the cleaning lady to make sure that Yakov received it.

Viktor stretched, feeling his spine pop from sitting in the same position for too long. He retrieved his pen before it could roll between the gaps in the railing and into the deep, dark waters below. He was not feeling up for an impromptu swim when he hadn’t even bothered to bring swim trunks.

He noticed that his dominant hand was shaking a bit. He supposed he could take a quick nap and resume writing when he woke up.

But as he laid on the bed in the cabin he had been provided, he found that he couldn’t fall asleep. Makkachin was a noticeable absence at his side, and the slight rocking of the ship bobbing on the waves was an unfamiliar and almost alien sensation. He didn’t get seasick, but he couldn’t sleep either. Heaving a sigh, Viktor sat up and gazed out the porthole just above the tiny writing desk in the room.

At first he only saw the water slapping against the sides of the ship. The sun sparkled brilliantly against the deep blue waters. Viktor blinked—he thought he saw—there, again!

A beautiful gray dolphin launched out of the water, shining water droplets flying through the air as it ascended. When it reached the apex of its jump, it angled downwards with the graceful tilt of its snout. Viktor watched it, entranced. He’d never seen a live dolphin so close before.

The next second, _something_ came out of the water and snatched the dolphin out of the air, dragging its flailing body below the churning surface. Viktor blinked and it was gone. The dolphin did not reappear.

He fought back a shiver as a chill tingled down his spine. In his excitement, he had almost forgotten about the dangers that lurked beneath the waves. He hoped whatever had gotten to that dolphin didn’t have any interest in eating humans. He’d like to make it back to land very much alive and intact, thank you.

Several minutes passed without incident. Nothing monstrous appeared out of the sea, nothing attacked the ship. Viktor wondered if he had just hallucinated the whole thing.

_I need a drink,_ he thought, rising from the bed.

He made his way to the ship’s dining room, but the doors were firmly shut and he was gently turned away by one of the staff members, who explained that they could not allow anyone into the room because they were preparing for dinner. Viktor pouted at the refusal, but wandered off anyway. He might as well just hit up the bar downstairs while he waited.

Very few patrons were at the bar at this hour. Viktor wasn’t looking to get drunk, but he did want something refreshing and mellow that wouldn’t hinder his thought process too much. He ordered some kind of fruity cocktail off the menu that sounded good.

While the bartender prepared his order, Viktor observed the area. Unlike most inland bars, this one was tastefully classy, tables and chairs arranged just-so, the dark cherry oak bar counter gleaming with a clean, varnished finish under the golden lights. There was a closed door to the side labeled as the designated smoking area, so as to avoid disturbing other passengers with the cloying stench of cigarette smoke. Light music played from discrete overhead speakers.

The bartender slid his finished drink over the counter. Viktor was delighted to find that it came with a tiny, decorative pink umbrella. He automatically reached for his phone to take a picture, only to remember that he had deliberately turned it off to avoid calls and texts from his acquaintances back in Hasetsu. Did this ship even have Wi-Fi connection?

“Do you have Wi-Fi here?” he asked, turning his phone on. He figured he should brace himself for a barrage of missed calls, angry voicemails, and long-winded text messages punctuated by yelling via capital letters and exclamation points (courtesy of both Yakov and Yuri).

The bartender silently pointed to the right, where a piece of paper printed with the name of the Wi-Fi and its associated password was taped to the wall. Viktor thanked the man, who replied with a brusque “sure” and turned to serve an approaching patron.

As soon as he connected to the ship’s Wi-Fi, his phone flooded with messages. It was almost impressive considering he’d only been gone a few hours.

 

**_Missed Calls: 4/4/17_ **

_Editor Yakov (12)_ _3:51 P.M._

_Yuri Plisetsky (5)_ _3:47 P.M._

_Christophe Giacometti (2)_ _1:23 P.M._

_Takegawa Hisako (1)_ _1:10 P.M._

_Mila Babicheva (1)_ _2:25 P.M._

 

**_New Text Messages:_ **

_Editor Yakov (9): VITYA! What the hell is with this random, whimsical…_

_Yuri Plisetsky (9): Are you fucking kidding me, old man?!_

_Christophe Giacometti (4): Hey Viktor, what’s going on? Your editor ke…_

_Takegawa Hisako (2): Hello, Mr. Nikiforov. I gave the letter to Mr. Felt…_

_Mila Babicheva (1): Yuri won’t shut up about how you’ve disappeared…_

 

Ah, he’d gotten a message from his newly-hired cleaning lady. Good, it looked like she made sure Yakov saw the letter. His reaction was… explosive, to say the least.

Yuri screamed and cussed at him a lot, nothing new there.

Yakov had contacted Chris? He hadn’t realized that the old editor knew Christophe’s number, after all, the erotic novel writer he’d met at a conference a few times didn’t live in Hasetsu.

Even Mila had tried to get in touch with him. He had no intention of replying to any of them—everything that needed to be said had been said in his letter to Yakov.

Viktor took his cocktail and walked to an empty table. He opened up his phone’s camera and snapped a picture of his drink, making sure the miniature flower designs inked on his umbrella were clearly shown in the image. He wouldn’t upload it to Instagram yet, that was something to do when he made it back to solid land.

He took a selfie of himself holding the drink seductively to his lips, giving a flirtatious wink to the camera, and ignored the rude comment whispered by a burly man sitting by himself in the corner. He was Viktor Nikiforov, five-time #1 Best-Selling Author, not some run-of-the-mill playboy taking pictures solely for attention (okay, yes, he was doing this attention, but really, it was mostly for his fans).

Viktor took out his notebook and his pen, flipping it open to the page he was last working on. His hand was still sore, but he thought that maybe he could write little blurbs with Charlotte and Lupin now. The disconnected paragraphs wouldn’t be cohesive as a whole, but he could potentially use them as part of his draft later.

As he worked, he periodically sipped at his cocktail. He didn’t want to ruin his appetite before dinner.

 

**_The gardens of the noble Bellanova estate_ ** ~~**_encapsulated_ ** ~~ **_encompassed the edges of the grand mansion_ ** ~~**_in_ ** ~~ **_with a spectacular range of colors. On a single midsummer’s morning, Charlotte walked down the winding path, alone._ **

**_“With this sword in hand, I_ ** ~~**_shall_ ** ~~ **_will smite all_ ** **_evil_ ** **_who dare to come near you.” The newly-christened knight grasped the jewel-encrusted hilt offered to him and tapped the pommel against his shining breastplate, just over his heart. “I am_ ** ~~**_a_ ** ~~ **_your weapon, I am your shield and sword, I give you my body and soul so you may use me as you see fit.”_ **

**_Lupin cupped her fair, freckled cheek with one rough, weathered hand. He was made to sin and sunder, to steal and plunder. Should he be struck down for his impertinence at this very moment, he would not regret_ ** ~~**_anything_ ** ~~ **_a single thing._ **

 

He tapped the end of pen absently against his chin. Come to think of it, he never gave Lupin a family name. _Charlotte Bellanova_ had a certain royal ring to it that fit her image as a member of a prestigious noble family, but what name sounded good with _Lupin_ , who was an adventurous, poor, seafaring man?

Something to do with freedom, perhaps. Viktor thought it appropriate, whatnot with Lupin the seafarer falling in love with a girl shackled by her nobility.

_Lupin Friedomme._ Nah, that looked _and_ sounded dumb.

_Lupin Liberio._ That was a start, but Viktor didn’t think it rolled as smoothly off his tongue as it could.

_Lupin Seacrest._

_Lupin Oceania._

_Lupin Liberteria._

Damn it, he could really use a name catalog right now. Maybe he could make up names now and find out what they meant later? But if he found one he liked and it didn’t match the character at all, he’d be in a real pickle.

Decisions, decisions...

He absently pulled out his phone to glance at the time, and did a double-take when the numbers register in his head. It was nearly six already, which meant that he’d been sitting in this bar for over two hours. His cocktail had been emptied a long time ago. Dinner service had begun about a half hour ago, which meant— _food!_

Viktor flew out of his seat so quickly that he nearly knocked the empty cocktail glass to the floor. His notebook and pens disappeared into his bag with record speed. He walked over to the dirty dish cart off to the side and set down his glass—he was a gentleman, after all—gave the bartender a nod, and walked out the door. Now that he thought about it, he was pretty hungry. It was best not to let alcohol sit in an empty stomach.

Thankfully this ship served its meals buffet-style, which meant he didn’t have to sit down and wait for his order to be made. The buffet was split into three sections: appetizers, entreés, and desserts. Every item was meticulously labeled; there were even gluten-free, dairy-free, and vegan-friendly options.

Viktor opted for a bowl of hearty minestrone and steamed fish with a side of herb-roasted potatoes. He chose an empty window seat where he could sit and enjoy the sunset. The sky was full of purples and pinks, reds and oranges and yellows mixed together around the sinking sun. He relaxed in his seat, losing himself to his thoughts. This was it; this was the kind of setting he wanted to envision for Charlotte and Lupin, although their differences in social status would not allow it.

He absently noted that there was a figure in the distance leaping out of the water with a graceful arch of its back. The sunlight reflected off the water, making its scales shine brilliantly, colors bouncing off its body like a living rainbow. Then his mind caught up to his eyes and he almost choked on his food because _that is not a dolphin or a shark what the hell is that._

He blinked and the sea was calm, undisturbed. He rubbed at his eyes and still, nothing surfaced. No bodies launched out of the water, nothing glimmered and gleamed. “You’re going crazy, Nikiforov,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Maybe the alcohol from the cocktail had been stronger than he thought.

 

000

 

_…Stammi vicino, non te ne andare_  
_Ho paura di perderti_  
  
_Le tue mani, le tue gambe,_  
_le mie mani, le mie gambe,_  
_e i battiti del cuore_ _  
si fondono tra loro…_

 

000

 

When Viktor went to bed that night, he thought he could hear a voice crooning to him from far away.

He woke up in the morning, uncertain why he was crying, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember what he had dreamed about.

 

000

 

The second day went much like the first, with Viktor observing his fellow passengers and writing until his hand cramped, breathing in the salty air of freedom. But unlike the first day, there was a strange air of unease and tension floating around the ship. Through the facade of pleasure and fun, Viktor caught glimpses of nervousness and unrest.

Apparently two of the passengers had gone missing the previous night. Available staff had been sent on a search throughout the ship and within a 500-meter radius of the ship, but nothing had turned up. Interviews with other passengers only revealed that multiple people had heard a relaxing melody last night and had assumed that it had been the late-night orchestra playing.

Viktor had been one of those people, only he hadn’t thought it was from an orchestra. He had definitely heard a voice singing to him… from the _sea._

His mind had a flashback to the previous day, when he had seen that dolphin dragged under the waves, and when he had thought he had seen a figure leap out of the water at sunset. He hadn’t hallucinated that. There was something dangerous lurking around the ship, deep under water, and for whatever reason, it had probably set its sights on the humans.

_Or those two could have just jumped ship and drowned_ , some dark part of him whispered. It was a valid point, but the fear didn’t go away. An unknown terror was a hundred times scarier than one that you were aware of.

A lot of people claimed that they didn’t hear any strange music last night, though. Did that mean those who heard it were specifically targeted? Was he next? Viktor’s pulse sped up, and he suddenly felt very cold. Maybe this stupid, spontaneous venture wasn’t such a good idea after all. He came out to have fun and get his muse back, not to perish in the gaping maw of a terrifying sea predator. Oh god, if he never came back, what would Yakov do? What would he say?

He had to stop himself from hyperventilating at the possibilities.

_Calm down, Nikiforov_ , he scolded himself, taking a deep breath and clutching his notebook tightly. _Look at the facts, not what-ifs._

Fact: two passengers went missing last night.

Fact: all their belongings were left on the ship.

Fact: some people heard strange music as they went to bed last night.

Speculation: the two passengers were lured off the ship and eaten by a sea creature.

Speculation: they jumped ship and drowned.

Speculation: they fell overboard and did not receive help, so they drowned.

Speculation: the singing is a lure targeting humans.

Viktor felt a little better after laying it out for himself. There was no proof that they’d been eaten by some sea creature of the deep, even though the dulcet voice and its accompanying musicality he had heard last night had come to him as though from a great distance, not from the theater room where the orchestra would play.

Of course, that did bring up the question of what happened to the two passengers. He cast a discreet glance around from the deck chair he was currently lounging on. There, and there—he spotted two very well-hidden security cameras. They were small enough to remain unobtrusive and out of sight unless one purposefully searched for them.

Since there were security cameras around, there ought to be recording tapes too. Security must be checking the tapes now, or at least they should’ve checked them by now.

There was nothing he could do at the moment. He made a mental note to be on guard if he heard the melody again that night. If he lived through the night and others didn’t, he could at least try to figure out what was going on. If he survived this whole ordeal, this could be the plot baseline for his next novel after _Stay Close to Me._

He took up his notebook and pen once more, determined to keep writing until his wayward muse finally decided to return. The sun was warm and the breeze was airy and moist and cool. There was chattering and murmuring all around him, filling the surroundings with welcomed noise. At the very least, these things would serve to distract him from the issue for a while. He didn’t want to think too hard on ‘what-if’s.

When he went to bed that night without hearing any music or songs from the sea, he was almost relieved.

 

000

 

Viktor woke slowly, mind in a fog of drowsiness. Someone was singing nearby. The voice was clear and unmistakably male. Who was it? Who was singing by himself this late at night? He wanted to know. He climbed out of bed, pulling on his coat, and walked out the door in a daze. Something niggled at him from the back of his mind, something that screamed _wrongness_ about the situation, but that part of him was quickly overwhelmed.

He vaguely registered that there were a few other people swaying down the hallway in the same manner, but this fact seemed largely unimportant compared to finding the source of that lovely sonorous voice. He walked on.

The air outside was surprisingly mild. It wasn’t neither too warm nor too cold, a slight sea breeze accompanied by a hint of humidity. The deck of the ship was dimly lit by hanging lanterns that glowed orange in the night. The voice was stronger now. Viktor made his way to the gleaming white railing and looked down.

A pair of lovely honey-brown eyes met his, the owner smiling at him with a bewitching, seductive, come-hither look that instantly made Viktor’s remaining inhibitions fly out the proverbial window. That face was _gorgeous._ The faint moonlight shining down on them from between the wispy clouds illuminated the paleness of its skin, the delicate structure of its cheek and jaw bones, its lovely ebony hair, slicked back and leaden with moisture, the mesmerizing way the water eddied calmly around it as it raised its slender arms up, calling and beckoning. Though no words were spoken beyond that enchanting song, the message was clear:

_Join me._

Viktor complied without a second thought.

Plunging into the chilly seawater was a huge shock to his senses. Viktor blinked, unable to remember how and why he had gone from being asleep in bed to jumping into the ocean. He surfaced with a wet gasp. He only had time to witness, with a burgeoning feeling of desperate panic, the sight of the cruise ship sailing away, oblivious to his plight, before something grabbed his leg and yanked him under.

He flailed as his head disappeared beneath the surface, cold water flowing around him and leeching all the warmth from him. He closed his eyes instinctively and kicked futilely against whatever was clinging to his leg, but water resistance made his movements sluggish and slow. It was like there was an iron manacle clamped around his leg. His clothes were weighted down by water, which didn’t help his frantic attempts to reach the surface.

Then he opened his eyes and caught sight of the creature that had tempted him into the sea.

Under the moonlight, the thing had appeared beautiful and otherworldly. Here, in its cruel domain, it took on a far more terrifying appearance. Honey-brown eyes gleamed like twin chips of insidious amber, set in a face that was morphing so that the jaw was slightly elongated. When it opened its mouth, far wider than any human could manage, Viktor could see every serrated fang with ease. Teeth like that were meant to strip flesh and crunch through bones like wet sandpaper. The creature also had a long, scaly lower body covered in blue-silver scales that reflected light even through the dim water. The spectacle was utterly petrifying; alien;  _inhuman._

A second creature swam by them at that moment, inky black hair waving in the water. It clutched another human in its grasp, the body bloating in an unattractive manner. The thing clicked at the one grabbing his leg, then quickly swam away (presumably to enjoy its dinner).

Viktor wanted to vomit.

He fought tooth and nail to get the creature to release him, to no avail. It watched him with those dispassionate luminous eyes, no human emotions present in its expression. He was just its next victim. Oh god, he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die! _Oh god, please, someone help me I can’t breathe, Ican’tbreatheIcan’tbreathehelpmeIdon'twanttodie!_

The edges of his vision turned fuzzy as his lungs screamed for fresh oxygen. His struggles slowly grew weaker. The sea had turned against him—was this his punishment for thinking that he could reinvigorate his muse out on the open water, without considering the danger it posed? No one would know what happened to him. In years to come, he would only become an object of speculation, an unsolved mystery, a cold case with a file left to collect dust, a best-selling author who vanished without a trace.

If he wasn’t currently drowning, he might have cried.

_Yakov… I’m…_

He reached out one last time for the faint glimmer of moonlight he could see shining through the murky ocean water, his hand grasping at nothing.

_…sorry…_

And then the darkness came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the second chapter even though it was mostly Viktor writing on a cruise ship. Please leave a comment before you go~


	3. Lost in Thought, All Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor wakes up in an unfamiliar place, Yuuri dances, and Yakov contemplates life.

_”Viktor.”_

There was a string of gentle piano music playing in the background, but it sounded muffled, as if underwater. He was floating, swaying with the waves, staring upwards in a daze and feeling strangely fascinated by the sight of his own silver hair moving slowly through the clear water, each strand highlighted by the mystic light shining down on him from above.

Who was calling him?

_”Viktor.”_

The voice, he could feel it reverberating around him. But there was no one there. Where…? Who…

Time had no bearing in this strange realm. The waves carried his body to an unknown destination. Viktor didn’t even think about how his body wasn’t sinking through the water, or the fact that his lungs didn't need oxygen, just that he was there.

A shadow circled him, a flicker of blue and silver and black performing powerful strokes through the waves. Inky hair and amber eyes were all he could make out. The voice called out again, the echoing tones bouncing off invisible walls, drowning out the other noises with a cacophony of timorous sound.

“Viktor. _Wake up.”_

And he did.

 

000

 

Consciousness came to him at a snail’s pace. Waking felt like sloughing through thick mud, his limbs heavy with lead, his mind a cloud of cotton haze. There was something wet and gritty beneath his skin. _Sand_ , his mind helpfully supplied. Stiff, crusty cloth clung unpleasantly to his skin, noticeably dry at his back and damp where he was laying on it. An unpleasant salty, coppery taste filled his mouth.

The heat against his exposed back must be sunlight. Carefully, he pushed himself up, grimacing at the feeling of grainy sand particles digging beneath his fingernails. A shiver wracked through his body as a sea breeze swept through the air. Viktor cast a look around, muddled confusion overtaking his sluggish thoughts when he didn’t recognize the area. This… wasn’t the afterlife, was it? It wasn’t exactly a paradise like Viktor was led to believe.

The blue ocean yawned wide and empty behind him, shallow waves splashing on the sandy shore several feet away from him. The shoreline to his right curved away from his sight, disappearing behind a dense forest of tropical trees that towered over him several meters ahead. Full, round yellow fruits hung tantalizingly from the willowy branches. To his left, the sand gave way to a scatter of uneven gray rocks, waves splashing high and foamy against the jagged formations. Seawater pooled in the little dips in the rocks where the surfaces faced skyward. Seagulls screamed obnoxiously overhead.

Viktor had absolutely no clue where he was. This place looked like something out of a storybook. The lack of lights in the distance indicated that he was nowhere near civilization. He clambered unsteadily to his feet, brushing as much sand off his clothes as he could. The sun was high in the sky, which meant it was likely around noon. How had he gotten here from the ship?

The memories from last night’s terrifying event came back to him in an instant: the alluring voice from the sea, the _creature_ that had awaited him, the cold, dark waters that he had almost drowned in—

He shuddered, pushing down the fear that spiked through him. Enough of that. What was more important now was that he had passed out while drowning, and had somehow made it to land despite the thing that had been in the water with him. Why wasn’t he dead by now? Why hadn’t it eaten him?

Viktor paused for a moment to clear up his panicked thoughts. Now that he thought about it, he could recall some mythological books he had read as a child that had depicted such a creature. A _siren_ , they had called it—a sinister sea creature that targeted humans by using their hypnotic singing to lure them to their deaths. It was said that none of their targets ever lived to tell the tale. So why had he survived?

He had too many questions and not enough answers.

Another sea breeze swept by, reminding Viktor of the uncomfortable state of his clothes. He should check out the perimeter of the island, see how big it was, see if there was something he could eat or if there was possibly a river or some other source of freshwater that he could bathe and wash his clothes in. Whatever was on him was all he had now. Everything else had been left behind on that ship. If it returned to the Hasetsu port without him, what would happen to his belongings? What would happen to Yakov and Yuri and everyone else who would think that he had died? What would happen to poor Makkachin, who would sit and wait for him alone?

He shook his head and slapped his cheeks with both hands, hard. Now was not the time to dwell on what-ifs. He had to focus on what was right in front of him.

Viktor began to walk towards the rocks, wincing as each step was accompanied by the sound of his expensive shoes squelching with seawater. He would opt to go barefoot in the sand, but if the rest of the island turned out to be full of unstable footing and rocky ground, it would be easier to just keep his shoes on, no matter how disgusting they made him feel.

When he reached the rocks, he was surprised to find that the rocks actually bordered an ocean cove. The small sea cul-de-sac was filled with clear water, a small strip of fine sand lining the back edges of the cove. He could see a few silvery fish swimming about near the cove’s entrance. At least he wouldn’t be stranded without a source of food, which had been one of the things he needed to find.

Past the cove was another stretch of sandy shore, which mirrored the other side and curved inward towards the trees. Try as he might, he could not see past the initial wave of trees; they were densely packed together, branches and roots and vines intimately entwined. The bulbous yellow fruits weighing the branches to the ground called out to him sweetly, ‘ _Here I am, eat me!’_

Viktor had never seen those fruits in his life. He would definitely be testing them, he’d had more than enough of lures to last a lifetime.

As he followed the shoreline up to the forest, he noted that a narrow strip of sandy coast wound its way around the outermost trees, inclining upwards slightly. That way most likely led up to a cliff, he surmised. The deserted island didn’t seem too big, so he doubted that there were any mountains in the vicinity.

Viktor drew close to one of the trees. He reached up towards the nearest fruit, plucking it from its place with ease. It was surprisingly heavy in his hand, the surface cold and smooth with tiny brown dots scattered over it. His stomach growled on cue. Casting aside his suspicions in favor of getting some food into him, Viktor took a small bite out of the side.

And immediately recoiled at the burst of unwelcome _sourness_ that filled his mouth. He nearly spat it out, if not for the sourness giving way to a more mellow sweetness a second later. He nibbled on the fruit again hesitantly, grimacing at the initial sour taste, but found that with each bite, the sourness diminished while the sweetness grew. It tasted a bit like a mix between a lemon and a nectarine. It wasn’t bad, actually.

Viktor stepped between the trees, casting a glance around to make sure there weren’t any threats. All was quiet, with the exception of distant birdsong—and the distinct squelch of his shoes.

The writer grimaced. He’d couldn’t take that awful sound and sensation anymore. He pulled the waterlogged things off, his soggy socks included, and stuck them in a sunny spot beneath the outermost tree. Hopefully they would dry out under the sun’s heat. Then he carefully continued on his way.

The forest was incredibly dark. Viktor was only able to see because of the occasional sunbeams that punched through small openings in the dense canopy overhead. The only wildlife he encountered were rabbits and lizards, not nearly enough to sustain him while he tried to find a way home. The trees were so closely clustered together that Viktor quickly got lost.

He wandered around for a while, hoping to find something to quench his increasingly parched throat. It was kind of ironic that he would be stuck in a situation like this, considering his writer background. He wrote about scenarios like this sometimes, but it was only at this moment that he realized the shallowness of his portrayals. Finding edible food and water, along with materials to use for shelter, was a _lot_ harder in practice than theory.

Viktor was a city boy, through and through. Research could only do so much if he couldn’t put his knowledge to practical use.

His stomach growled unhappily, unsatisfied with the single fruit that Viktor had eaten what felt like hours ago. It was getting darker, too. Just how big was this place? If he headed in a single direction, he was bound to hit the shoreline again, right? So why did it feel like he was just wandering in circles?

Viktor paused next to a particularly gnarled tree that he was sure he had passed at least three times already. He sat down in a small groove at its base, sighing loudly. He brushed a few leaves and twigs from his hair and stared mournfully at his dirty feet, loamy soil clinging to his toes stubbornly.

Lost on an uninhabited island, surrounded by trees and ocean, with nothing but the clothes on his back? This was not how Viktor imagined his spontaneous journey to the sea would go. Now he didn’t even have his notebooks with him, much less any spark of inspiration for his next novel.

The silver-haired author buried his face into his crossed arms, breathing deeply. He was an idiot, wasn’t he? How had Yakov put up with his idiosyncrasies all these years? How was he supposed to find his way home if he couldn’t even find his way out of a forest? He couldn’t find a single source of fresh water to alleviate his thirst. He didn’t know how to build a shelter by hand without any tools. He had never felt more like a pampered rich kid than in this moment, lost, alone, and stewing in his own anguish.

Something cold and wet brushed against his exposed ankle, making him jump and startle the squirrel that had been sniffing at his waterlogged clothing. It ran off into the woods with a terrified squeak.

Great, now he was scaring off the local wildlife. Viktor shook his head and pushed himself back to his feet. He really should find a way back to the beach before night fell.

 

000

 

Viktor woke slowly, his eyelids fluttering open in the darkness. He thought he heard a voice singing somewhere. Sitting up from his makeshift bed of leaves, the author surveyed his immediate surroundings with a sleepy gaze. Pale moonlight shining down from above made things a little easier to see.

His ears picked up a sound from far away. Softly at first, but then the notes growing louder in pitch, a man’s voice sang into the night. It was the same voice Viktor had heard while he had been on the ship. He tensed, remembering the dangerous creature he had encountered underwater. Had it followed him all the way here? Was it getting ready to finish him off at last? Viktor immediately covered his ears, fearing the worst.

But the longer he listened, the more he realized that the owner of the voice wasn’t singing to lure him to his death. Previously, a strange, calm feeling had washed over him and prodded him in the voice’s direction, but this time, the siren seemed to be singing for the sake of singing. Perhaps it didn’t know that Viktor was here.

The writer hesitantly lowered his hands. The siren’s singing actually sounded…kind of sad. Lonely. Bereft of purpose.

It made him want to talk to it.

Would it be better to classify that thing as a ‘he’? From what he had glimpsed of its anatomy last night, it was undeniably male. But was that too presumptuous of him?

_You’re talking about something that tried to fucking kill and eat you, idiot._ His inner Yuri voice was ever so blunt.

Viktor tried to convince himself that surely, it wouldn’t be that bad to just take a quick look at the creature again. Just a peek. If it tried to eat him again, he would get the hell out of there as fast as he could and never go back. He nodded decisively and climbed to his feet. Thankfully his shoes were now mostly dry, having been left out in the sun for several hours, just a little crusty from seawater salt.

The singing grew louder as he walked towards the ocean cove. Viktor found that he couldn’t actually understand the words to the song, but the soft lilt of the masculine voice and each perfectly pitched note and tune still mesmerized him.

When he finally reached the rocks that bordered the cove, he hid himself in the shadows and tried to find the voice’s owner without revealing himself. But there had been no need to hide; the siren was in plain sight in the dark ocean water. And what Viktor saw there took his breath away in one fell swoop.

It was dancing—no, _he_ was dancing.

Bright moonlight bounced off miles of visibly pale skin, the water flowing around him as he swept slender, toned arms upwards and beckoned to the wispy clouds, a beautiful voice bursting with emotion and song out of a long, white throat bared to Viktor’s gaze. Hair as black as charcoal was slicked back from the creature’s face, exposing his honey-brown eyes, his eyelids fluttering with every movement as he spun and twirled in the ocean waves like someone truly made for the sea and born with inimitable grace. The movements of his mouth exposed his pearly-white fangs, a stark reminder of his true nature as a literal man-eater. The silvery-blue fins along his arms and his spine moved with him as he danced, sliding through the water as easily as flesh. Viktor was transfixed by the sight of clear liquid sliding off his near-translucent skin, tiny rivulets running over his defined pectorals and slightly pudgy stomach before rejoining the ocean water below. The sharp jut of his hips faded into the silver-blue scales of his powerful tail, propelling him through the sea far more easily than human legs could ever manage. Each sweep of his hands sprayed droplets of water into the air, moonlight catching on them and making them shimmer like diamonds against the night sky.

He was beauty.

He was grace.

He was responsible for the hot blush on Viktor’s face.

The author was no stranger to romance, but this was the first time he had ever felt such an intense, almost _magnetic_ physical attraction to another man. Scores of men and women alike vied for his attention back in Hasetsu, but anything he had felt for them was paltry in comparison to what he was feeling now. He could not find the words to explain the flame burning in his chest, the quiet awe and slight guilt he was experiencing from watching this private performance. If anything, he actually felt like an intruder for witnessing the mythical creature’s aquatic dancing without approval—a bit of a foolish notion, one would think, considering that that very same being had attacked and nearly eaten him the previous night and certainly hadn’t needed _his_ approval to act.

But Viktor couldn’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away from the seductive way the siren undulated through the water, moving to music that only he could hear. He quietly shifted himself halfway out of the shadows so he could get a better view.

Viktor didn’t know how much time he spent just sitting and watching the siren dance. His knees were cramped and his butt was sore from sitting on uneven rocks, but he didn’t want to move lest the beautiful sight be ruined by his clumsiness.

Eventually—to his internal dismay—the siren crossed his arms over his chest and spun one last time, coming to a stop with his body facing in Viktor’s direction, eyes closed.

When they opened, the siren seemed to immediately zoom in on Viktor’s exposed position, his bright honey-brown eyes widening to comical proportions from shock and surprise. Viktor froze, having not expected the siren to see him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, two, three, before the creature let out an unearthly high-pitched shriek and promptly dove beneath the ocean surface.

“Ah, wait—!” Viktor scrambled to his feet, wincing as his legs protested from being in the same position for too long. When he looked up, the sea was calm and undisturbed, as if the magnificent sight that had stolen Viktor’s breath away had never happened.

He felt bereft.

He stayed by the rocks for a little longer, desperately scanning the ocean to catch a second glimpse of the mysterious siren, but no matter how long he waited, the creature didn’t appear again.

 

000

 

Meanwhile back in Hasetsu, a certain gruff editor was seething so hard his entire face turned red and unattractively blotchy.

It had been two whole days since he had received Viktor’s letter about setting off to sea to find inspiration, and despite the numerous calls he’d made and the messages he’d left on the brat’s phone, not once did Viktor call him back to let him know where the fuck he was. And with only a few weeks to his deadline, too! Yakov was no spring chicken; Viktor’s flighty, spontaneous nature was liable to give him a heart attack one day.

The old editor heaved a great sigh. He supposed he had some phone calls to make. He hadn’t released any statements regarding Viktor’s next novel yet, seeing as he didn’t even know what the whole story was, but with the writer gone, publishing would need to be delayed for the time being.

If Viktor didn’t return within the next week, or at least give him a phone call, Yakov would need to hunt him down himself and drag him back to finish his manuscript, kicking and screaming if need be.

As he checked up on the other authors under his supervision, Yakov considered what he should say to Viktor when they next saw each other. He knew for a while that the man had been having trouble with his writing lately. The spark of genius and creativity that Yakov had first glimpsed in the brilliant young junior writer had sputtered out somewhere along the way, perhaps crushed beneath the tidal wave of fame and expectations that came with being a number-one best-selling author.

It was always the brightest stars that burned out the fastest.

Yakov thought he could forgive Viktor for his idiosyncrasies if he returned from his trip with at least a rough manuscript in hand.

He could also look into a promising junior writer that Viktor had recommended to him, the winner of the _Agape_ -themed contest, Yuri Plisetsky. He’d heard that the Plisetsky brat had quite a foul mouth on him, but his harsh demeanor belied the beauty of his prose. Yakov had read _The Witching Flower_ after it had been published in the April edition of _Writers’ Dawn_ , the JWC’s monthly junior writers magazine. Though it was far from being a true masterpiece, he could see the same blazing potential in the junior writer’s work as he had when he had picked up Viktor so many years ago. He had the power to lure readers into his world with a few choice words, the power to twist emotions and make them feel what the characters felt, make them rage and sympathize and smile and cry in turn. Yakov believed Yuri had great ambition as well, always reaching higher than he stood. And to him, that was also a major cause of concern.

Viktor was on a downward spiral. If Yakov chose to pick up Yuri Plisetsky as another one of his writers, he had to make sure Yuri didn’t end up the same way. There were many obstacles in any career path. Though Yakov held hope that Viktor would overcome his slump eventually, he had also seen too many writers fall to the exact same problem, and write themselves into a pit of despair.

Anyways, back to the task at hand. Yakov pulled out his phone. He had phone calls to make and research to do, including finding out exactly _which_ ship Viktor left on and when it was scheduled to return.

 

000

 

_Can you hear my heartbeat?_

_I’ve got a feeling it’s never too late_

_I close my eyes and see myself_

_How my dreams will come true_

 

000

 

Viktor slept fitfully that night, unused to the hard ground and lack of civilized comforts. He dreamed of the siren again, watching the moonlight dance play over again and again, each time with a slightly different outcome. But in the end, it—he—always disappeared beneath the dark surface, leaving Viktor in the lurch. When the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, painting the sky pastel pink, creamy orange, and lavender, Viktor woke abruptly, crying, his hand stretched out beside him as if reaching for something that he couldn’t have.

In the morning, he was sore, tired, and most importantly, hungry. The yellow fruits were only good as a small snack, not a full meal. He had no tools with him, so he had to resort to breaking small branches for firewood and using rocks to make crude spears to hunt for fish and rabbits. Needless to say, that venture had been less than fruitful.

When Viktor returned to his makeshift camp, he already wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to sleep and sleep and hope that someone would come and find him by the time he woke up. But the cynical part of his brain told him that was as likely as Yakov doing a pirouette in a tutu costume.

He paused.

Or Yuri becoming a saint, that was a much more pleasant image than the first one.

He walked to the ocean cove on unsteady legs, nearly falling into the water when he slipped on some loose rocks at the edge. Looking around, there was still no sign of the siren that had captured Viktor’s attention last night. He wondered if sirens could feel embarrassment. That one had certainly seemed shocked to find Viktor watching his performance.

Perhaps the creature didn’t appear in the daytime? As far as Viktor knew, he had only seen it at night when the sun was long gone from the sky. Maybe he should return at night to see if he came back.

But in the meantime, what was he supposed to do all day long? He had neither his tablet nor his notebooks to do his writing. He certainly couldn’t occupy himself with some TV shows to pass the time. And he had no Makkachin to play with, either.

Viktor didn’t think he had ever missed his dog so much. Where was his happy, fluffy, energetic ray of sunshine when he needed him? Back at home, waiting for Viktor to return, but oh, he didn’t know, that Viktor might never come home…

_Stop it,_ he told himself sternly. He’d angsted enough yesterday, he needed to be more positive today.

First of all, he should probably try to find a way to make himself a better shelter. A simple bed of leaves wasn’t going to cut it for however long he was here. And he needed a reliable way to get water and a way to get more food. He should also find a way to signal for help, but frankly that was lower on his list of immediate priorities when he considered how long it might take for someone to actually find him.

Ah, if only he had his notebooks. Viktor was certain that everything he was experiencing now would be of great use to his writing and his future novels. Sadly sand, fragile leaves, and jagged sticks were incapable of helping him brainstorm ways to convey the nature of Charlotte and Lupin’s relationship in _Stay Close to Me._ Maybe if he tried doing some diagrams on the beach? There was a thought.

He cast a last long look at the cove before he turned around to walk back to his camp. If the siren showed up at night again, Viktor would make a better effort to try and talk to him and not scare him off. If he did surprise the creature again, well, at least he might get a nice show out of it. Siren or not, that body was _sinful._

 

000

 

Viktor made a valiant attempt to stay awake that night, but ended up dozing off leaning back against a tree before the moon reached its zenith in the sky.

However, he was awakened a couple hours later by familiar singing, this time soft and low like a soothing lullaby. Naturally the quiet crooning made Viktor immediately want to fall back asleep, but his insatiable curiosity got the better of him and he forced himself to stand up and walk.

The siren was back in the cove. Viktor had thought he might have scared him off with his appearance last night, but he was back. The writer opted to stay concealed in the shadows this time. He would wait for the perfect opportunity to announce his presence and see if the siren might be willing to talk to him.

The mythical creature was dancing again, but it seemed to be less intense tonight. Instead of grand, sweeping gestures, he was swimming in slow circles, trailing his hands through the water. He cupped the water in his hands and let it fall through his fingers, sometimes splashing it over himself and teasingly running his hands over his own flesh. His singing was quieter tonight, more mournful, more somber, and it was reflected in his movements.

Viktor was nonetheless enthralled. It felt like he could sit here and watch the siren dance forever. He hadn’t forgotten how terrifying the creature could be, but after that dazzling display last night, somehow it just seemed… less important.

The siren lifted a single pale arm out of the water, his hand stretched up towards the moon. For a moment, his singing slowed to a stop, and he sighed so softly that Viktor barely heard the words, “I want to be there…”

Then he dropped his hand and used his tail to twirl himself in place, both arms above his head, imitating a circle but not quite touching.

Viktor was frozen where he sat. Did he just hear the siren finally _speak?_ Because the siren’s singing was in a language unknown to Viktor, he hadn’t been positive that he would be able to properly communicate to the mythical sea creature, but those words were proof that the siren could understand human speech and even speak it!

In his excitement, the writer completely forgot he was supposed to be hiding. He quickly stood up and shouted, “You _can_ talk!”

The siren screamed in surprise in the midst of a twirl and he tumbled clumsily into the water, momentarily abandoned by his usual grace.

Viktor immediately realized his folly. “Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you! I just want to talk!” he said, flailing his hands desperately. He scanned the rocks for a way to get down to the strip of sand without potentially causing himself serious harm.

When he looked back at the cove, the siren’s honey-brown eyes were barely peeping at him out of the water. He looked wary and suspicious and strangely frightened. Viktor couldn’t blame him when he’d burst out of hiding like that and shocked the creature for the second night in a row.

“I just want to talk,” he repeated. “Please.”

The siren slowly and silently rose out of the water, his silver-blue fins flared in a threatening display, but he seemed to at least be giving Viktor a chance. The writer wasted no time making his way down to the sandy strip just below the jagged rock formation.

When his bare feet finally hit sand, Viktor sighed in relief and turned around. He nearly fell over when he saw that the siren was much closer to him than before, but still kept a respectable distance away from him. He stared at Viktor mutely.

The silver-haired man cleared his throat. To be honest, he wasn’t quite sure where to begin. He wanted to ask _‘why did you let me live’,_ but he also thought he might come off as ungrateful that he was still alive and not in the belly of the beast. He could say that he thought the siren’s dancing was beautiful, but would it be awkward to mention that when he felt like the intruder for interrupting him?

The basics. He should go with the basics.

“What’s your name?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He put his hand over his heart and smiled nervously, hoping that he could just wing it. “I’m Viktor.”

The siren blinked at him, then opened his mouth—oh, wow, look at how sharp all those fangs are—and parroted back at him with just the slightest stutter, “V-Viktor.”

The way he said it was so shy and hesitant, slightly sharp on the ‘k’ and drawing out the sound of the ‘r’, that it instantly made Viktor’s heart melt into a puddle of goo inside his chest.

“Yes, that’s my name,” he said, quietly pleased. He extended a hand forth in invitation, the palm facing upwards. “May I know yours? I don’t want to keep referring to you as ‘the siren.’”

The siren dithered in the water, clearly reluctant. His fins weaved to and fro with his thoughts, no longer threatening, but tense all the same. Viktor waited patiently.

Finally he acquiesced to Viktor’s request. “Yuuri,” he mumbled, fidgeting uncomfortably in the ocean water. He then took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like a man on a mission, and looked Viktor straight in the eyes, saying more firmly this time, “My name is Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M ALIVE. Sorry y’all, didn’t mean for this chapter to take so long to come out, but RL kicked my ass this year.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas to everyone!


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